Dead Ducks Stink (Like, REAL bad.)

At this point, you are all familiar with the disturbing taxidermy hobby that BabyDaddy has taken up this past year. (Only to be surpassed in morbidity by operating a funeral home – but no offense to you good funeral directors out there.) He has recently decided that he has mastered the furry things, and so has moved on to the feathery things. An anonymous donor, (I think just anonymous to me, because BabyDaddy knows I would probably hunt them down like a dog and put the things under the floor mats of their car on a hot day), gave BD half a dozen lifeless duck (carcasses/bodies/cadavers?) for him to practice on, with the caveat that at least one must be mounted and returned for display. Have any of you ever smelled a duck? What about a dead one? Hmm? Yeah, well, count your lucky sparklin’ stars my friends. I can’t even describe it. It’s not like ‘hot dead’ that you all heard me complain about over the summer, or even ‘rotten food’ or ‘burned hair’, or ‘mildewed socks’. It’s like nothing I have ever smelled before, but suffice it to say, IT. IS. GROSS. I mean Yuck-O-Rama. I should have forced BD to sequester himself in the garage and duct-tape (ha- duck tape!) around the door when he is working on them. Ugh – My stomach flips over just thinking about it.

Moral of the story – Girls, never marry a man who likes to play with dead anythings. It usually signifies some sort of a deeper problem. Alas, for me, it is too late – I’ve already fallen madly in love with a man who brushes the cape of a dead deer with more attention than he pays to his own head. I am too far gone for recovery. I have to live with ‘hot dead’, finding animal hair in my brush, (Me: “Is this DEER hair in my brush?! Really?! DEER HAIR?!!!” BabyDaddy: “But I NEEDED a brush, I couldn’t FIND my other one…”), and the fact that every single time I walk into my garage I trip over plastic eyeballs and fake ear molds. The JOY. (*Sigh*)